


One of Us

by breathtaken



Series: All of Us [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He and Athos have long had an unspoken agreement that while Aramis can mostly be allowed to sow his wild oats where he pleases, some targets are just too hot to end in anything but trouble, and it's their job to point that out to him in no uncertain terms. Anne of Austria being one. This probably another."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Us

**Author's Note:**

> While some details are drawn from the Dumas novel, canon is first and foremost that of The Musketeers BBC TV series. Written post-airing of S01E03, so may diverge from canon revealed after that point.
> 
> NB: The term 'comrade' dates from the mid-1500s in France, but was not used politically until the time of the French Revolution; here our Musketeers are simply using it to mean 'friend'.

#### Paris; March 1630

"It just doesn’t seem fair!" d'Artagnan complains, knocking back the last of his cup of wine. "Surely I've proven myself enough."

He's right really, Porthos reflects, though it's hardly his decision. d'Artagnan's handy with a blade, watertight honour – not to mention he's saved Athos' life twice in about six weeks – and Porthos finds himself thinking of him less and less as 'that Gascon kid', and more and more simply as d'Artagnan.

"Try and be patient," he replies sympathetically. "Right now, Tréville's got more use for you as an unofficial Musketeer. None of us could have done that prison job as well as you did. Doesn't mean he doesn't rate you."

"After what you've done for Athos, how could he not? Not to mention your service to His Majesty." On d'Artagnan's other side, Aramis squeezes the boy's shoulder, giving him a smile that seems to Porthos to be more of a leer. "You're very important to _all_ of us."

Aramis has already had a few drinks, and Porthos, probably the expert in these matters, wonders if his comrade is laying it on a bit thick. He certainly seems to be a shade too friendly towards young d'Artagnan than for it to be completely innocent.

"At least tell me you're getting paid," Athos remarks. Although at the same table, he's sitting slightly apart from the other three, drinking mostly silently; it's the first thing he's said in some time. His expression is guarded, and the look he shares with Porthos thereafter is a clear sign that he’s not the only one concerned.

He and Athos have long had an unspoken agreement that while Aramis can mostly be allowed to sow his wild oats where he pleases, some targets are just too hot to end in anything but trouble, and it's their job to point that out to him in no uncertain terms.

Anne of Austria being one. This probably another.

Maybe they're being overly cautious, but. They've learned that where Aramis is concerned, one can never be too cautious.

"Yes, Tréville has sorted that out at least," d'Artagnan replies. "Officially I'm attached to des Essarts' company, even though I've never met the man, and that's keeping my purse full. Otherwise I suspect even Madame Bonacieux would have put me out of my bed by now."

The lewd wink Aramis gives the other two over d'Artagnan's head is so familiar to Porthos that he can almost hear his brother's words in his mind: _there's always plenty of room in_ my _bed._

This is starting to get out of hand.

d'Artagnan sees their faces and Aramis' grin, and fortunately draws entirely the wrong conclusion. "Aramis, I swear to God – I meant it when I said I'd respect her marriage." He actually looks a little put out.

"And that's very morally sound of you," Aramis replies, amused. "But if you like a woman with a bit of spirit, which I think you do,  then you should at least give her the choice. Let me show you how it's done. You take her hand, like so –" he grasps d'Artagnan's hand and holds it between his own – "and you say, 'Madame, I am in love with you'. Then you tell her that you will never ask anything of her, least of all that she break her sacred vows, and then you kiss her hand."

And with that, Aramis actually raises d'Artagnan's hand to his lips and kisses it, far too slowly, never once breaking eye contact.

Porthos kicks him under the table.

This is _definitely_ getting out of hand.

"I guarantee you'll have her within a week," Aramis finishes, releasing d'Artagnan's hand, and then glaring at Porthos.

Fortunately d'Artagnan's fairly deep in his cups himself, and he seems to find the whole thing hilarious. "You've met Constance, Aramis. You really think this would work with her?"

"If you believe in yourself, she'll believe in you too. She's half in love with you already, she just needs a little encouragement," Aramis replies confidently. "There's so much I can teach you, d'Artagnan," he continues, his tone becoming intimate. "I have no sons, at least none that I know of, and I need to pass on my knowledge of the art of seduction."

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" Porthos mumbles into his drink, not as quietly as he'd hoped to. He daren't look at Athos.

Aramis gives him a look, and says lightly, "Porthos was my last pupil, and we all know how _that_ turned out."

d'Artagnan laughs so hard he almost cries.

Porthos chokes on a mouthful of wine.

He is going to _kill_ Aramis for this.

Fortunately for all of them, at that moment d'Artagnan stands, still shaking with laughter. "Right, nature calls, and then the next one's on me."

Once d'Artagnan is safely out of sight, Athos and Porthos fix Aramis with a pair of extremely unimpressed glares. Their brother holds up his hands. "What?" he says, at least having the grace to look a little ashamed.

"You know very well what," Athos says coldly.

"Perhaps I got a bit carried away," Aramis concedes. "I just feel for the lad. He's new to the big city, he doesn't know one end of a woman from the other and Tréville's made no attempt to give him the commission that I think he's rightly earned…"

Porthos says nothing; just raises an eyebrow, knowing Aramis won't be able to keep it to himself for long.

"...okay, damn it, I'm testing the waters."

"You're testing the waters," Porthos repeats, unconvinced. He's still not sure exactly where Aramis is going with this.

"What I mean is," he leans in, voice dropping to an almost-whisper, "That perhaps it's time _we_ showed him a little appreciation. Time he truly becomes a brother."

They are all silent for a moment as the full implications of Aramis' words sink in.

Porthos is the first to respond. "Are you mad?!" he hisses, eyes flicking guiltily around the tavern, even though no eavesdropper could have made sense of his brother's meaning. "Please tell me you're joking!"

He glances over at Athos, and can't read his expression at all.

Aramis actually manages to look offended. "Joking?! What are we doing here, if not-"

"Enough," Athos interrupts. "Not here."

He's right of course, that is what they've agreed; not to speak of it outside the privacy of their own chambers, not even in allusion.

"Later, then," Aramis replies. "At my lodgings." There's no reply. "Well? Will you come?"

"Yes, alright," Porthos replies for both of them. Athos nods slightly in acquiescence.

Nobody says anything further until d'Artagnan returns, hands full of drinks and a bemused expression on his face as he sees the three of them sitting in sullen silence. "What’s happened?"

"My fault, I'm afraid," Aramis answers. "It seems I can be thoroughly unlikeable when I put my mind to it. I suggest we all drink up and head home."

* * *

After bidding d'Artagnan good night, the three of them walk to Aramis' lodgings, with barely a word between them. Aramis lives far from their usual tavern, in fact from anywhere of note – but it's off a series of streets frequented by the kind of people who don't know their neighbours and wouldn't dream of concerning themselves with anything unusual they saw or heard, which is far more valuable to them all than mere convenience.

The door is barely shut before Porthos gets right up into Aramis’ personal space, unable to hold back his anger any longer, pointing a finger in his comrade’s face to punctuate his words. "This needs to stop. I know what you're doing, and I can't allow it."

"What exactly is it I'm doing, _brother_?" Aramis replies belligerently, removing his hat and hanging it on the back of the door. Porthos feels his jaw clench, infuriated that Aramis isn't even bothering to look at him.

"Trying to…" For a moment Porthos can't find a word for it, or doesn't want to. "Seduce him," he finishes at last. "It's too risky."

He'd thought that even Aramis would have more sense.

"I don't mean for him to be a conquest." His comrade speaks quietly and carefully, the sound carrying in the stillness of the room, cutting more sharply than if he'd shouted.

"You _weren't_ joking," Porthos replies almost to himself, his anger suddenly evaporated. Sinking down onto Aramis’ bed, his fingers trace the pattern of the brocade coverlet absently as he works his way through all the thoughts that have bubbled up inside of him.

The idea of d'Artagnan joining them – becoming one of them, in _that_ sense – was something he'd never allowed himself to consider. It was true that over the weeks the young man had slotted himself into their existing group like a missing puzzle piece. And it was also true that given an easy opportunity of taking d'Artagnan to his bed, or even better, to _their_ bed – well, he wouldn't have had to think twice about it. He'd never let himself dwell on those thoughts, though. After all, no man had that kind of luck twice.

As usual when discussing matters of the heart (or of the loins, depending on your viewpoint), Aramis knows exactly what he's thinking, and voices it. "Oh, Porthos, sometimes I wonder how you ever find fulfilment," he says not unkindly, sitting himself down next to Porthos on the bed and lacing their fingers together. "So pessimistic. What makes you think he wouldn't be amenable?"

"What makes you think he _would_?" Porthos replies tiredly, squeezing Aramis' hand. "We can hardly afford to find out." The possibilities loom before him – even if they manage not to be burnt at the stake for sodomy, lose their commissions or bring down a scandal on their order and probably by extension the royal house, they would surely lose d'Artagnan. Who, Porthos admits to himself, he has begun to… care for.

"He would."

Porthos glances up, startled. He had almost forgotten Athos was there, leaning against the window-frame in the corner of the room, almost beyond reach of the candlelight, jacket still on, and holding his hat to his chest.

How can you possibly know that?" Porthos demands, but less surely than before. If Athos believes – well, that could open a door which he would have firmly kept shut.

"You _haven't_!" exclaims Aramis, whom Porthos really wishes would keep his big mouth shut sometimes.

Fortunately, Athos ignores him. "I don't know for certain," he replies carefully, "but I’ve… come to believe that he desires me, though he may not consciously know it."

Something must have happened at Athos’ manor when d'Artagnan went to look for him, something more than his brother is willing to talk about. The only thing he does know, which is the fact that d'Artagnan went back there at all, already speaks volumes.

For the first time, this starts to seem less to Porthos like a one-way path to ruin and more like something that could just work. Which is probably  _more_ terrifying.

 "I trust you," Porthos replies at last. "But I still don't like it."

"I know. It would break the first rule," Aramis says.

Athos frowns. "What's the first rule?"

"Always get a reference." Aramis meets Porthos' eyes as he says this, smiling, and for a moment Porthos feels love clench in his chest.

That was the first thing Aramis taught him all those years ago when they met, him just another street rat, good with a blade but always wanting for a commission, eking out a living and fighting his own desires. Everyone knew everyone else, Aramis had explained to him; everyone who was careful. Everyone who didn't wind up dead or run out of town. And if Porthos had his eye on a man who wasn't known to anybody who mattered – well then, he had best tread very lightly indeed.

"So will you deliver him to us then, Romeo?" Aramis continues, leaning back and slinging an arm round Porthos' shoulder.

"I'm not promising anything," Athos replies. "We’ll have to be much more certain before saying anything we could regret. But I am confident."

"Do you _want_ to though?" Porthos asks, realising as he says it that no-one's yet asked that question. There is no doubt that _Aramis_ wants, and he knows that he does – but Athos is a different creature entirely. One who carries the heavy weight of his past with him, that he never manages to forget. One who often takes his leave of him and Aramis on nights when Porthos would much rather he stayed.

One who knows his brothers inside and out, and would never hesitate to lay down his life for them.

"Yes, I do," Athos replies. "If he’s truly going to be one of us, it will only be right."

_Well then_ , Porthos thinks. All he can do is wait and hope that the other two have seen something in d'Artagnan that he really hasn't.

Aramis breaks the moment with a stretch and a yawn. "And now that that's settled," he says, "I do hope I can offer you boys a nightcap."

"I will take my leave," Athos says abruptly, standing and putting his hat back on his head.

"You won't stay?" Aramis asks, suddenly serious.

Porthos feels his spirits sink a little, and is grateful that he didn't have to ask Athos himself. He wonders if that's why Aramis did.

"I want to drink alone, and to sleep," Athos replies. "I'm sure you will manage without me."

As if that was the point.

As if he hadn't been laying with them less and less in the last months. As if he hadn't nearly lost his life twice in six weeks, in addition to being victim of a character assassination and God knows what happened at that mansion, that Porthos knows Athos would not speak of if he asked him.

But Aramis, who takes when Porthos doesn’t dare to, is rising and sliding his hand round the back of Athos' neck, pulling him in for a kiss that is gentle and lingering. "Good night then, brother," he says, and Athos nods once, a slight smile reaching his lips, before half-turning to Porthos who gratefully bestows a kiss of his own.

Then he leans into Aramis’ side as they watch Athos gather up his effects and a bottle of wine from Aramis' sideboard, and let himself out into the night.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos have an unspoken understanding not to speak of that night again until Athos does, which ends up being a full week later. In the meantime Porthos carries the weight of it with him, finds himself quick to anger, tense around everyone and doubly so around d'Artagnan.

As fearful as he is of the consequences, he decides, the other two are right. If d'Artagnan is to truly be a brother to them as they are brothers to one another, then they cannot have this secret from him. It means either never truly trusting him… or taking their chances and letting him in.

This is why it's been years since Porthos has slept with anyone but Aramis, or Aramis and Athos both, or occasionally one of Aramis' suitable 'friends'. For him, the overwhelming fear of what could go wrong completely outweighs any possible pleasure.

But the worst of all is uncertainty, the feeling of being in limbo and not knowing which way the situation will turn; so when Athos encourages them away from the main guard that morning with a meaningful look, it's actually something of a relief to know events are in motion.

"Tomorrow night. Aramis, make sure you have some good wine. We'll drink it at your lodgings."

"And where am I going to get good wine from in a day and a half?" Aramis affects annoyance, but Porthos can see his eyes are suddenly alive. He’s long observed that for Aramis, the risk inherent in such a liaison actually _enhances_ the pleasure, which for Porthos doesn’t really bear thinking about. "Like he would know the difference anyway."

"Gascony's famous for its wines, you uncultured oaf," Athos replies. "I'm sure you'll think of something." He drops his tone in a way that that from anyone else would be suggestive. "Consider it an investment."

* * *

The evening they've chosen comes mercilessly round long before Porthos is ready to face it. As they walk through the city streets he feels fear squatting like a rock in his stomach. d'Artagnan may only be one young man, but if they've misjudged this he could ruin them all.

_It's crazy_ , he thinks. Aramis is crazy. _He's_ crazy to have allowed Aramis to follow through with this. And Athos…

Aramis has been wrong before, but Athos' judgement he trusts down to the bone. Athos who's always holding something back from them, but whom Porthos loves no less for it.

While Porthos has barely been able to bring himself to say more than two words to anyone that day, the upside to Aramis' God-damned sexual confidence is that _he_ has no problem behaving completely normally. The invitation to his lodgings is delivered casually when d'Artagnan suggests they head to the tavern, and d'Artagnan doesn't blink at it. Porthos supposes that he may well just think that this is how things are done in Paris. He probably also assumes that Aramis actually has a reception room with a table they can sit at, rather than one great bed, some battered old packing crates and little else.

"I don't know this district," d'Artagnan says, looking around him apprehensively. The wide central streets have given way to a series of narrow, winding alleys, tight-packed with shoddy-looking houses and not a soul in sight, and Porthos sees it for the first time through the eyes of a country boy. There’ll be no trouble for a group of well-armed strangers here, of course, but it’s no doubt a far cry from what d’Artagnan’s used to, open fields and free-roaming chickens and all that.

"Rue Chantereine. And not the good bit. It's the Jewish quarter," Aramis says, which is at least half-true. Their destination is just past, on the edge of Pigalle, a warren of houses known to its inhabitants and others in the know as the Silent Court, for reasons Porthos decides he’s probably better off not knowing himself. It's a decided step down from the Jewish quarter.

"You're not…" d'Artagnan frowns.

"No, but I was owed a favour by a friend," Aramis replies, as if that explains anything at all. "Now I’m just too lazy to move. Plus it's cheap." They cross what almost counts as a proper street, and plunge straight into a dark passageway with even worse twists and turns, and a _much_ worse smell. "Just through here," Aramis says cheerfully, as if he doesn’t live somewhere which doesn't look so different from where Porthos himself grew up.

They finally courtyard, and d'Artagnan looks around in disbelief at the filthy flagstones under their feet, the tight knot of houses surrounding which seem to loom over them in the twilight. "Please tell me you don't bring women here."

Aramis claps a brotherly hand on his shoulder. "Oh, d'Artagnan, you've so much yet to learn." Porthos automatically rolls his eyes at Athos before he even realises he's doing it. "The first rule of being a great lover of women is that you always go to the lady. You would never ask the lady to come to you. That would be terribly unsafe for her."

"Especially if you live somewhere like this," d'Artagnan grins at him, before looking over his shoulder. "Where do the rest of you live?"

"Somewhere normal," says Athos dryly, and Porthos chuckles despite himself.

The entrance to Aramis’ building is a pitch-black, twisting staircase and not much else, after which the rooms themselves are a pleasant surprise; certainly much bigger than one would expect given the surrounding architecture. Porthos watches d’Artagnan slowly circle the main room, taking everything in. The beams in the ceiling imply that two former rooms have been knocked together, and while it must be second or third storey judging by the climb (Porthos has never been entirely sure), it rises high enough over the surrounding buildings to get a good amount of natural light during the daylight hours.

Once they are all sitting (or in Athos' case leaning) with a cup of wine in hand – which is surprisingly good, Aramis _has_ done well – Porthos feels his stomach clench anew as the reality of what they’re about to do hits him full-on. He takes a gulp of his wine, too fast. He feels like a trapped animal, cornered and ready to be shot.

Aramis’ hand comes to rest in the small of his back, out of d’Artagnan’s sight (he hopes), and it’s a small relief.

Porthos looks at Athos but can’t read his expression. He’s standing just out of reach of the candlelight, his features obscured by shadow.

d’Artagnan, meanwhile, is looking over at the two of them with an expression that says, _why did this just get weird?_

Aramis speaks first, as Porthos had been hoping he would. "When I said I lived here because it was cheap and I was too lazy to move, that wasn’t completely true. The real reason I live here is because it’s discreet."

"Discreet." d'Artagnan repeats.

"Yes."

"Ah." d'Artagnan seems to accept this for a second, but then frowns. "But you don't bring women here."

"No."

"Then I don't understand. Is this… something illegal?" d'Artagnan asks slowly, his expression darkening.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Aramis replies lightly. "But certainly not in the way you think."

There is a moment of silence, as Porthos and Aramis watch d'Artagnan closely. Porthos hopes that the impact of Aramis’ words and what they could potentially mean are tempered by the bond of trust that they have already begin to build between the four of them.

"Well, then I’m _really_ confused," d'Artagnan replies at last, turning to look questioningly at Athos, who Porthos notes still functions as their unofficial leader even when he's almost literally attempting to blend into the background.

"Drink up," Athos says, clapping him on the shoulder, "and one of these days Aramis may even reach his point."

"With little help from you, I see," Aramis replies tartly, already leaning forward to top up d'Artagnan's cup. "Now, we cannot make you a Musketeer all by ourselves. We can definitely lean on Tréville, suggest to him that you've already earned your commission, but our power ends there. What we _can_ do, however… is call you brother to us three."

d'Artagnan's eyes flash as he responds, "And I am sure there is no greater an honour."

"And you honour us," Aramis replies. "But don't get ahead of yourself."

d'Artagnan looks immediately suspicious. 

Aramis takes a drink, then clears his throat slightly. "My brothers would die for me, and I would die for them. We celebrate and we mourn together. But we are more to each other than you know. In fact, we  share… everything."

As he says this, Aramis ever-so-casually puts his free hand on Porthos' knee, with a studied naturalness that would pass by any man who had not been following their conversation. But d'Artagnan's dark eyes follow the movement, skittering like prey following the movement of a predator.

"You… share your women?"

It's a question, but there's an unconvinced edge to it; and Porthos realises that d'Artagnan knows, or thinks he does, but is offering them the opportunity to prove him wrong.

Aramis' hand slides slowly up the inside of Porthos' thigh.

And Porthos knows instinctively that it is his turn to speak.

"Personally, I have never loved a woman," he says, making himself look at d’Artagnan.

"But you do lie with women?" d’Artagnan replies, but as if he doesn’t believe it himself.

"No. Well, once, but I can't say I enjoyed it very much."

d’Artagnan just looks at him. There is silence, which threatens for a moment to stretch out indefinitely, until Aramis (of course) jumps in to fill it.

"We lie together. We’re lovers," he says baldly, obviously feeling that the moment for subtlety has passed. "We have been for years."

d'Artagnan’s expression is somewhere between disbelieving and scared. "Athos?" he says, with a tremor in his voice, and Porthos realises he probably can’t work out if Aramis just means himself and Porthos, or all three of them.

"It's complicated," Athos replies, looking into his cup and very much not at d'Artagnan.

"For you it's complicated, brother," Aramis replies. "For me it's very simple."

"But what you're saying… surely it is against nature," d'Artagnan says at last, looking around at the three of them, but sounding less like he's convinced and more like he needs convincing.

"I believe it's in my nature," Porthos replies honestly.

 "But… _you_ have mistresses, Aramis."

"I do," Aramis replies with a smile. "And I have never felt the need to deny myself anything I want."

"And Athos…" d'Artagnan trails off for a moment, as if he's not sure what to say, or there’s something he doesn't want to say. "You told me about your wife."

"I could never love a woman again," Athos replies. "But my brothers I love more than my own life."

d'Artagnan looks round at the three of them again, wide-eyed, then puts his head in his hand for a moment, rubbing his brow, and Porthos finds he's holding his breath. _Please God, let Athos not have been wrong about this._

Then Athos moves, crouching down in front of d'Artagnan, and actually gets on his knees before him on Aramis' bare floorboards, holding out a hand. "We want you to join with us."

"And if I won't?" d’Artagnan replies, barely above a whisper.

"Then you will be our brother anyway, if you will still acknowledge us," Athos replies. "But we had to tell you, or we could never truly trust each other. I hope you understand that."

Porthos can't see Athos' face from where he's sitting, but he can see d'Artagnan looking at Athos intensely enough to make his breath catch, as though he and Aramis  are no longer in the room at all.

The tension is almost unbearable.

Then d'Artagnan grabs his almost-full glass, and unceremoniously downs every drop in it before clasping Athos' hand and pulling him towards him until their lips meet.

It is only now Porthos realises that for all the times he's thought about this evening over the past week, played out possible scenarios in his head, he has never once got beyond what would happen if d'Artagnan actually agreed.

He certainly wouldn't have come up with this if he had. Athos, who wouldn’t kiss either of them on the mouth for over a year, kissing d'Artagnan as deeply and furiously as if his life depended on it.

Porthos feels Aramis’ arms slide round his waist, under his shirt, and the shifting of the mattress as his comrade rests his chin on Porthos’ shoulder. "Well, this is quite a sight," Aramis remarks. The other two pull apart, and Porthos can see d’Artagnan breathing heavily. His gaze meets theirs, wide-eyed. "I’d say he’s a natural. Well, don’t keep him all to yourself, Athos!"

Athos rises and leads d’Artagnan over to the bed, one hand on the younger man’s wrist, and neither looking particularly at ease despite their passion of a few moments ago. The whole thing feels faintly ridiculous, and Porthos has no idea where to start. But fortunately they have Aramis for that, Aramis who Porthos would swear could charm anyone he chose into bed, Aramis who undoubtedly has been formulating a strategy of his own from the moment the idea first occurred to him.

"Now, d’Artagnan, you’ve never lain with a man before?" Aramis says conversationally, as if he were asking about the weather or the price of fish.

"I… no," d’Artagnan replies haltingly.

"Then you should just sit back" – Aramis indicates a stack of pillows at the headboard – "watch, and learn," cocking his head at Athos to indicate that he should join him there. "Porthos?"

Porthos turns fully to face his comrade, who cups his jaw in his hands and kisses him once, softly. Aramis moves his mouth to Porthos’ ear and whispers, "Pretend it's just you and me," before biting his earlobe, sending a surprised jolt of desire rushing through him.

This part he knows; this they’ve done together hundreds and hundreds of times in the decade and longer they’ve known each other. Over Aramis’ shoulder he sees d’Artagnan settling back against Athos’ chest, between his spread knees, and hears the low sound of their voices, but it’s easy to pretend they aren’t here at all. Athos had liked to watch in the beginning, still does sometimes; not even touching himself, just sitting with his hands by his sides and his prick straining at his trousers, and Porthos is used to the feeling of eyes upon him.

"Clothes off," he murmurs, and he and Aramis strip until they’re in nothing but long johns. Then they come together once again, kissing mouths and jaws and necks, fisting hands in hair, biting and licking and sucking, rubbing together through their smalls. Aramis’ mouth is at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and Porthos shoves at Aramis’ chest, using his strength advantage to push the other man back into the bed. His head hangs off the edge, and Porthos keeps him there with a forearm across his clavicle as he sucks and bites at Aramis’ nipples, drawing a gasp from him.

"Aramis likes that," Porthos hears Athos say to d’Artagnan. He sneaks a glance at the pair of them, takes in Athos’ heavy-lidded eyes, his hand inside d’Artagnan’s trousers, circling slowly. His attention only slips for a second, but it’s enough time for Aramis to throw him off with a well-timed application of strength, where he rolls up against their legs.

"He waits until you’re distracted or you’ve given up on him before fighting back," Athos finishes, with an amused glance directly at Porthos, who rolls his eyes in response. Following his instincts now, he gets up on his knees and kisses Athos hard, one hand in his hair, the other pushing down between Athos’ chest and d’Artagnan’s back to stroke Athos’ cock through his trousers, fumbling with the laces at his groin. "Mm," Athos groans, d’Artagnan twisting away so he can watch.

Porthos pulls back slightly so that he can look Athos in the eyes. "It’s been too long, brother."

"It has," Athos agrees, kissing him again but pulling Porthos’ hand away from his loins. "But I think not yet. First I want to see you three together. If you’re ready for that, d’Artagnan?"

"As I’ll ever be," d’Artagnan replies. Aramis already has one hand on d’Artagnan’s hip, and he passes round a cup of wine with the other. The moment d’Artagnan’s passed the cup on, Aramis pushes him sharply around to face him, and pulls their bodies flush together, kissing him commandingly.

"Arms, Porthos," Aramis orders, and Porthos realises at once what he means, and loops d’Artagnan’s arms through his own, locking them behind the boy’s back and gripping his wrists tightly so he can’t wiggle free.

The result is electric. d’Artagnan _growls_ , thrashing like some feral cat trying to break his bonds, and it is all Porthos can do to keep him held fast, alternating kisses and bites at d’Artagnan’s shoulder. Aramis meanwhile presses even closer, making an appreciative noise as he does so. "Hard as stone! I think he likes it," he remarks to Porthos and Athos. "We should remember that. But for now, he’s wearing too much."

Porthos takes that as his cue to let go of d’Artagnan’s arms and pull the boy’s shirt over his head instead, tossing it carelessly to one side as Aramis unlaces his trousers. d’Artagnan shifts, helps them over his hips and pushes them off until he’s clad in just his smallclothes, smalls that are looking entirely too small to Porthos’ eyes. "I think those can go as well, don’t you, Aramis?"

"Absolutely," Aramis replies with a positive leer, hooking his thumbs into the sides of d’Artagnan’s smalls, easing them down and off to reveal a generously thick cock. d’Artagnan moans as Aramis wraps his hand around the base, moving it up and down a few times with practiced ease, and leans back into Porthos’ chest.

"Athos, oil!" Aramis holds his hand out for a familiar bottle, whose contents he pours into his right hand, before passing it to Porthos, who slicks up a hand of his own. d’Artagnan murmurs appreciatively as Aramis returns to massage his balls with an oily hand, but as soon as Porthos slips a finger down beneath his arse cheeks, he freezes.

"Stop! I don’t want to be passive," d’Artagnan blurts out, eyes flicking round to Athos and back to Aramis, and Porthos realises what conclusion he’s drawn.

"Nothing you don’t want. You have our word," Porthos says quietly in d’Artagnan’s ear, finding one of his hands and squeezing it, kissing his jaw. "We don’t mean to take you tonight."

"Think of that as _advanced_ sodomy," Aramis adds, possibly unhelpfully. "This is more by way of an introduction."

"I’m just going to touch you," Porthos says, reintroducing his finger just behind d’Artagnan’s balls, and circling, with a light but firm pressure. "I won’t put my finger inside you unless you ask me to."

"Though that can be pleasurable too. _Very_ pleasurable," Aramis adds, with a wicked grin, before leaning forward to kiss d’Artagnan thoroughly, as Porthos begins to slide his knuckle back and forth over the boy’s entrance. That movement coupled with Aramis’ hand sliding along his shaft is drawing regular moans from d’Artagnan, and somehow Porthos isn’t surprised that he’s the noisy type. As Aramis leans over his shoulder to kiss Porthos, d’Artagnan’s moans only get louder.

"Wait, I don’t want to spend yet!" d’Artagnan growls. Porthos catches him glance at Athos – still dressed, though his trousers are tenting obscenely – and raises an eyebrow at Aramis, who’s seen it too. _New boy’s already got a favourite_ , says his amused smile.

"How old are you exactly, d’Artagnan?" Aramis asks.

"Twenty."

He chuckles in response. "If I remember being twenty rightly, you’ll be ready to shoot again before the night’s over. Now lean back against Porthos, and I’ll show you my special trick."

Porthos raises an eyebrow at Athos, them both being well acquainted with Aramis’ special trick – but as the man in question lowers himself to the bed and swallows d'Artagnan's cock down to the root, the boy lets out such an oath that makes Porthos think he’s never been throated before.

After that it’s barely a minute until d’Artagnan throws his head back and comes with a shout, collapsing back bonelessly against Porthos’ chest.

Aramis swallows and sits up, licking a drop of seed from the corner of his mouth in a gesture that Porthos has seen enough times to know is deliberate, but which has d’Artagnan’s eyes fixed on Aramis’ mouth as though he’s discovered the holy grail there. "Learnt that from a whore in the Basque country," Aramis quips. "Her husband was very open-minded."

Porthos laughs broadly, unable to help himself. "d’Artagnan, you know he’s lying because he’s smiling."

"Everything serious is true," his lover replies. "But as for the rest – well, a bit of embellishment never hurt a good story."

He glances over at the bed, and Porthos follows his gaze. "What do you think next, Athos?"

_The stars waiting for the moon’s command_ , Porthos thinks poetically. Athos is looking completely in his element, turned-on, and more _present_ than Porthos has seen him in months. _He’s back_ , he realises, and opens his mouth to tell Athos to get his arse over here –

"I want–" d'Artagnan starts, and then snaps his mouth shut, abruptly.

Athos raises an eyebrow in response, "Then I'm all yours, brother." He pushes himself up on to his knees on the bed, and d'Artagnan moves into his arms like a whirlwind, pulling Athos' shirt over his head, exploring him with hands and lips, tracing and kissing his scars.

And Athos is just letting him, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, for once not taking control or holding himself apart, but just letting himself feel pleasure in a way he rarely manages.

In a way that he rarely has with Porthos.

"Lie down," Aramis says in Porthos' ear, and he obediently lies down on his back, one hand under his head, to watch Athos and d'Artagnan together. Aramis drapes himself over Porthos' right side, and kisses his neck leisurely. "Jealous?" he asks quietly, not that the other two are paying them any attention.

"Yes," Porthos grunts, because there's never any point lying to Aramis, he always knows.

"He's getting better all the time," Aramis replies. "Slowly, but he is. And we did that. You remember what he was like at the beginning."

"Yes," Porthos replies, though as a general rule he tries not to.

"So just enjoy the show," Aramis replies, and Porthos feels his comrade unlacing his smalls. "And next time I will have a few things to teach our newest member about the art of love, and you and Athos can watch. _Together._ "

"You're too good to me," Porthos replies gratefully, once again overwhelmed by just how well Aramis knows him, and what he offers him.

"I love you. Truly." As he fully unlaces Porthos' smalls and takes them both in hand, Aramis kisses him, deep, slow and passionate; and as he strokes him with the easy familiarity of a long lover, Porthos feels his desire begin to build again. They smile at each other, and for a moment it's just the two of them and no-one else.

 Then Aramis looks past him, expression blooming into a grin; and Porthos turns his own head to see Athos, naked, and having his cock sucked by d'Artagnan, who appears to be making up for his lack of skill with an abundance of enthusiasm.

"That boy's going to be a great lover one day," Aramis says in Porthos' ear. "Once we've taught him everything we know, of course. I'm not sure which part I look forward to the most."

Porthos considers this for a moment. "No reason we can't enjoy both."


End file.
